The Christmas Present

"Are you mad at me?" he asked. His expression was hangdog.

I didn't answer; not trusting what answer would come out of my mouth. Instead, I sipped more of the wine.

What I felt, was that I had come within a hairsbreadth of fulfilling his long-time fantasy of seducing his mother. That's what it felt like to me.

"Why me?" I demanded.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"I'm your mother, Paul," I cried in exasperation. "Why would you want to...kiss me?" I had almost said fuck me.

He looked at me with momentarily unfathomable eyes. Then, shrugging, he said: "Because you're the perfect woman for me."

I snorted. "I'm far from perfect, Paul."

"You are to me," he countered.

Arms crossed, wine bottle clutched in my right hand, foot tapping incessantly on the floor, I said: "You are crazy."

Sighing, he looked down at the floor.

For a long time, neither of us moved nor spoke. I kept tapping the floor with my bare foot; he kept staring at it. Finally, wondering what words would exit my mouth; I said to him: "No one can ever know about this. No one. Ever, Paul."

He looked up hopefully.

"If your father ever found out, it would kill him. Just kill him, Paul."

"I understand," he said.

"I've never cheated on your father, not even once. Never." Looking past him, I thought: And I'm getting ready to do it with his son?

Quickly drinking the last of the wine, I retrieved another bottle and this time poured it into a glass. Then I did the same to the rest of Paul's and handed it back to him. Might as well be civilized about this, I thought. Another part of my mind responded wryly: Or be romantic.

Knowing I'd need it, I removed the last wine cooler from the now-empty carton and carried it along with me back to the living room. Ignoring the divan, I separated the stack of pillows with my foot into a more comfortable pile to sit upon while Paul took my unopened bottle of wine and sat it on the end table. Then, extending his hand, he helped his slightly tipsy mom sit herself down on the pillows. He joined me a moment later and we both leaned back against the upholstered front of the divan, something I had done many times with his father. Then he got right back up and crawled over to the fireplace to rebuild the faltering fire. As he squat to load another log, I watched him contemplatively.

He was such a handsome young man. Better looking, in fact than his father. Better looking, in fact, than the handful of young men I'd dated before marrying his father. I couldn't believe my baby was six-foot tall and almost two hundred pounds. He's not a baby anymore, I reminded myself. He's 19 years old and a college boy.

Sipping, I wondered, not for the first time, what having Paul out of the nest would do to me. I didn't like the idea. His sister being gone was something of a relief; but Joanna and my relationship had, to say the least, been rancorous. Paul being gone, I suspected, would leave a huge jagged hole in my heart.

"I don't understand the attraction," I said to his back.

Still adjusting a log with his right hand, he looked back over his shoulder. "How can you say that? You're beautiful."

I felt myself blush. Maybe at one time I'd been beautiful, but two children and 22 years of marriage had taken its toll on me. I was ten pounds overweight, my breasts had begun to sag, and I would never look nineteen again in a bathing suit. I wondered if he knew I colored my hair. Without my contacts I was blind as a bat. Thinking all this depressed me.

"Every son thinks that about his mother," I mumbled.

Drawing the sides of the screen closed, he brushed his hands together and stood up. The fire had begun to devour the new logs and was crackling merrily. The push of heat against my face felt wonderful. I watched him, idly swirling wine in the glass.

When he turned around, he said: "I've wanted you all my life, Mom."

I snorted at that.

"Well, since I turned 18, anyway," he said, shrugging.

That I couldn't snort about. I remembered that morning when his eyes relentlessly following me around the kitchen. I said: "Are you a virgin?"

Without sign of embarrassment, he nodded.

"You've been saving it for me?" I asked, butterflies wheeling in my stomach.

He nodded again.

"You really are crazy," I said.

He retrieved his glass and sat down beside me again. I reached over for the unopened bottle, twisted off the cap and replenished our glasses. Wine always fortified and emboldened me, fine for some situations, but disastrous in others. I put my hand on his right cheek and stroked it lovingly. Taking this as a cue, he leaned over to kiss me. I turned my face up to meet him, careful with the wine glass, not wanting to spill it all over us. Our lips touched and electricity flowed through my body again. I let him draw me in, holding the nearly-full glass of wine safely aloft. I'm sure, except for the absurdity of a 37 year old woman and her 19 year old lover, we looked liked something out of a movie.

It became something almost magical. My mouth opened under the urging of his tongue and I met and accepted him into my mouth. For someone professing to be a virgin, Paul kissed exceptionally well. He continued to twist me around until I was in danger of flopping down on top of him with a wine glass in my hand.

"Wait!" I gasped. Reaching up, I placed the glass safely out of reach on the end table and then allowed Paul to bring me back to him. Our mouths locked together again and our tongues began to waltz. I was atop him now, my position ungainly, but not wanting to be in any other position. I kissed him with an energy and urgency I hadn't experienced in years.

"Not a word!" I gasped, breaking the kiss. "I want you to promise me, Paul. Not a word to any of your friends." I remembered how oath-sworn secrets, most of them certainly true, spread faster than the speed of light in college. Paul telling even one of his friends would leave his whole class knowing.

"One of these days, Mom," he said, looking up at me with complete honesty, "I'll tell a nice young woman I meet on the Internet all about it. She'll write up our story and I'll surprise you with it on Christmas Day when you're 60 years old. Until then, I won't say a word to anyone."

What could I say to that?

I kissed him again and slowly, tentatively, his hand slid up the outside of my sweater and encountered my breast. I moaned as he took possession of it, squeezing gently, his fingertips tracing the outline of my brassiere underneath. I was suddenly glad that I had worn a matching set of lacy blue underwear.

He broke the kiss. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this," he whispered softly. "That we're actually doing this," he corrected.

I was breathing heavily and took a moment to catch my breath.

"We have to be careful, Paul. I'm not on the pill anymore and I certainly don't want to get pregnant."

Just saying the word released an army of red-hot emotions battling inside me. Regardless of which way that battle went, I knew I had sufficient cause to worry. My period was a week and a half away, making pregnancy a very distinct possibility for this lady.

Paul grinned up at me and I knew he had prepared for this eventuality. Undoubtedly he had a whole box of condoms stashed away, just awaiting the opportunity. The problem was, I didn't want him using a condom. Knowing that made my emotions battle just that much harder.

I returned my mouth to his and let him work his hand up under my sweater. He cupped my breast gently, squeezing it almost reverentially, and I wondered if his virginity extended to breasts. The thought, the hope that it was true made me absurdly happy. Then he confirmed it.

"This is the first breast I've ever touched," he said.

"Oh, Paul," I moaned. Warmth spread throughout me like delicious hot cocoa.

"When I see it," he said, rising up to kiss me again, "it will be the first bare breast I've seen, also."

Every nerve ending in my body tingled. I needed more wine. Lots more wine. Stretching out, I grabbed my glass and, after taking a huge gulp, offered the rim to my son's lovely mouth. He rose to accept.

"We have another six-pack in the refrigerator?" he asked.

"Thank, God, yes!" I gasped, finishing the glass and grabbing his off the table. I was in the rapids of desire and alcohol was vital to assist me over the jagged mental rocks.

His hand slipped along my back and located the strap of my bra and unsnapped it easily.

"Hey!" I said in surprise. "You didn't learn that on your sister, I hope!"

He laughed, enjoying the absurdity of it. Putting his other hand under my sweater, he sought out my now-free breasts and held them as though he were handling bars of gold. Sitting in his lap, I stripped off my sweater and sat there with it clutched in my hands. I watched his wide eyes travel from one bra-covered hand to the other. Finally, gulping loudly, he lifted my bra away and bared my breasts.

I giggled uncontrollably and hunched my shoulders in unbidden reaction. His grin was huge and seeing his pleasure at something so mundane as my saggy, 37 year old breasts made me squirm with pleasure like I hadn't done in years.

"Stop it!" I squeaked.

"They're beautiful" he complained. It occurred to me that he'd soon be sucking on them after an 18-1/2 year absence. That realization broke me out in goose-flesh across my upper body and made my already hardened nipples ache miserably.

"Cloud Nine," he said breathlessly, breaking me out in fresh giggles.

I let my bra slide down my arms and gave it to him. Then, with his assistance, I stood up and walked breezily out to the kitchen for two more bottles of wine. On the way back I grinned sheepishly, crossing before the two open windows, one of them the big bay widow overlooking the front lawn. I refused to cover myself up; instead I strode by the bay window with my shoulders back and my chest thrust forward, feeling marvelously like a stripper. I sobered somewhat seeing his look of shocked disapproval.

"I'm not an exhibitionist," I said defensively, handing down his bottle. I was no longer in direct line of sight of the bay window, and felt safe standing there.

"I don't want to share you with anyone," he said. "Especially, not a neighbor."

"It's after midnight," I pointed out.

"People could still look in."

"Oh, pooh," I said dismissively. I really was feeling the drink.

I refilled my glass halfway, and then his with the remainder of the bottle. I thought it best to cut back my consumption; otherwise, I'd soon find myself too drunk to function properly. I'd always had a low resistance to alcohol.

While I sipped, Paul set his glass down on the floor, and then unexpectedly reached up and slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of my leggings. He slowly began to work them down my hips and thighs. My heart skipped a beat, and then began pounding thunderously. My nipples hardened into achy little points and blood rushed into my face and my upper body again broke into gooseflesh. I had intended to do just what he was doing right now, but I was not doing it, my son was and I shivered so hard he stopped momentarily.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I lied, shivering again.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"No, Paul, I am not cold."

I continued to look down at him, slowly sipping my wine and experiencing the strength of my heart beat. He worked my leggings the rest of the way down to my ankles and I stepped out of them awkwardly.

"There," he said unnecessarily.

"There," I repeated.

He looked up at me, at my near-naked body, his eyes following the contours of flesh from my breasts down to my ankles and then back up again. I had the sensation of trying to be memorized. I wondered how I'd feel when he removed my panties and rendered me completely nude. It was too much like being on display.

Squatting and placing my wine glass on the floor beside his, I took his hand and assisted him to his feet. With trembling fingers I unbuttoned the front of his shirt, spread it apart and ran my hands across his young, hard-muscled flesh. He responded with a shiver of his own and I leaned in to kiss him. His hand found my right breast and the other the small of my back. Both of my hands stayed inside his shirt.

"You are the most beautiful woman in the world," he whispered. His mouth homed on the erogenous zone of my neck and began to kiss me there and suck eagerly. A shudder occurred, so powerful that it forced an involuntarily cry out of me and a spasm of muscles tried to dislodge him from my neck. Instead, he burrowed in deeper and went for total devastation.

"Oh, Paul," I moaned loudly. He had me bent over backward and clutching his strong biceps for support. I tried to get away but his lips were relentless. He found my earlobe and then the back of my ear and I began losing control of myself. I felt a helplessness and a maddening desire that I hadn't experienced since the back seat of a car when his father had first seduced me. Was it truly, Like Father, Like Son?

I yanked the shirt out of his pants and down his back. While I struggled with his belt buckle he unzipped his fly and then assisted me getting his belt apart. We fought over the button but he won out. I was victorious in getting his shorts removed. Without my permission he then removed my panties and we both stood naked, together, kissing.

"You kiss just like your father kisses," I told him during a gasp for air.

Sometime later he asked: "Is that good?"

When next I came up for air I said: "You bet it is, mister," then stuck my tongue back down his throat.

For a long time we did nothing but kiss. He kissed wonderfully, and I could easily have kissed him all night. But a French kiss takes massive effort and eventually even the strongest tongue wears out. Mine wore out before Paul's did.

"Wait!" I gasped. "Break! I need a break."

Paul didn't want to break, and extended my agony another two minutes.

"Please!" I gasped. "If you don't stop, I won't be able to talk tomorrow."

He laughed, which broke his fanatical craving.

While I fought for breath, he tipped my head back with the tips of his fingers and reminded me we stood under the mistletoe.

"Whatever you paid for it," I said hoarsely, "you got your money's worth."

He let me recover, but worked his hands over pretty much the entire reachable span of my body. Again, I felt that desire to be memorized.

"Do you know," I said wonderingly, "that you have me more worked up than at any time since I was a teenager?"

From his grin, he seemed to like that idea.

"It's not funny," I said, looking away in embarrassment. "You do things to me that ..." I groped for the words.

"That a 37 year old mother shouldn't be experiencing?" he finished.

"Not with her son, anyway," I said.

I was aware of his erection--which I had purposely ignored until now--pressing against my abdomen. I wanted to see it, to see what my child intended to put inside me. I moved him away just enough to look down and discovered a carbon-copy of his father. Same length, same thickness, same coloring. Not a carbon-copy, I realized, but a mirror image. Where his dad's erection took a slight bow to the left, Paul's went right

Lke father, like son, I thought wryly.

Paul sat down on the edge of the divan and drew me close to him. With a hand on either hip, and with great interest, he examined my hairless labia. Immediately I felt trepidation. Should I have shaved in anticipation of this moment? But Paul seemed totally transfixed by my light stubble and I felt relieved when he tentatively removed his hand from my left hip and ran his fingertips across my skin.

"You're not disappointed?" I asked.

He looked up, almost distractedly. "Why would I be disappointed?"

"Women my age don't always shave themselves down there."

"I love that you do," he said, continuing to run his fingertips across me lightly. His words and the touch of his fingers returned me to shivers.

Squatting, I retrieved the wine glasses from the floor, handed over his and indicated that I wanted to empty them together. After clinking the rims, we did so in one long gulp. I then reached down and retrieved the unopened bottle from the table, twisted off the lid and let Paul fill our glasses. I sipped appreciatively while Paul went back to examining my genitals.

"I'm glad you've never done it with anyone but Dad," he said.

"I'm glad I've never done it with anyone but your dad," I repeated, adding: "And you, of course."

"Do you think Dad would really mind?" His hand had turned palm up and he was now lightly fingering my lips. I was wet inside and out. I shivered again.

"We don't want to ask him," I said seriously.

He nodded, his eyes almost wistful.

I should explain that his was only the second set of fingertips to ever touch me there. (Other than those of my doctors, of course.) I told him that and he grinned up at me happily. Suddenly, he leaned forward and planted a kiss just above my clitoris.

"Paul!" I yelped, jerking spasmodically and taking an unconscious step backward.

"That too?" he asked, grin widening.

"That too," I confirmed, downing a gulp of wine. My God! I thought. He just kissed my pussy!

As a true indicator of my astonishment, that horrid word came naturally to mind and was not viciously slapped down as it normally would. I hate the word pussy and won't tolerate having my genitals called that, even by myself.

I sipped wine while Paul continued to finger my wetness. I stared down at his intent face, but shifted my eyes to his hand whenever he looked up. It was obvious I liked it, and obvious he liked it too. Thank God for that glass of wine, I thought.

"Can I put it inside you?" he asked, looking up.

I wanted to laugh, to tell him at this point, he no longer needed permission. But his earnestness melted me inside and I simply reached down and tousled his hair in answer. Still, I sucked in breath and took another quick gulp of when his middle finger slid effortlessly into my vagina.

"Oh, God!" I gasped, shivering head to toe.

"Do you like that?"

I took another sip of wine and didn't answer. I'm not sure I could answer. I could barely think, much less talk. I almost had a heart attack when he withdrew the finger and put it in his mouth.

"Paul!"

"What?" he came back, laughing.

My face got hot enough to rival the heat from the fire.

Taking his hand, I drew him to his feet and wrapped my arms around his neck and put my tongue in his mouth. I could taste myself in his saliva, but that was nothing new for me. I tried to maintain enough presence of mind not to spill wine down his bare back--but it was an effort. Especially when his middle finger slid effortlessly inside me again.

"Is this better?" I asked, raising my right foot and placing it on the edge of the divan. A second finger slid inside me, then a third, and then his thumb sought out and found my clitoris.

"Where did you learn that?" I panted.

He only laughed and kissed the side of my neck and left shoulder. I clung to him, rather desperately, as those three fingers and a thumb and that damned mouth of his tried to separate me from sanity.

"I have a favor to ask," he said, head still buried in the crook of my neck.

"What?" I gasped. He had me shaking like a leaf and rubbery-kneed, ready to collapse.

"Would you stroke me?"

As incredible as this sounds, I had never even considered doing that. Immediately, I transferred the wine glass to my left hand and reached down and took his huge stiffness and began to stroke it. He moaned at my touch, but I moaned even louder. Now that I'd taken this step, I wanted that beautiful thing in my mouth and then in my vagina. I wanted him fucking the hell out of me. I wanted what he would deposit in the end of his condom and was frustrated almost to tears knowing that's where it would go. It was then, I knew, that I decided I had no intention of letting him put one on.